


Wall Between Us

by superwholockatthechemicalboy



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco, The Brobecks
Genre: M/M, Ryden, brallon, dystopian au, idk what im doing, ill keep adding tags as i go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-01-26 15:23:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12560388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superwholockatthechemicalboy/pseuds/superwholockatthechemicalboy
Summary: Your Career defines your life. You define your Career. But Brendon's choices send him spiralling out of control.





	1. Chapter 1

What made someone important? Was it their personality? Their skills? Their money? Their social status? For me, this question was so easy to answer. Because all those things did not matter. Only your Placement did. I had not been placed myself, but I knew how the process works. They tested you, physically and mentally to see which of the five Career groups you were best suited for – Labour, Military, Hospitality, Government or Arts. Labour being the lowest, the working class, and Arts being the elite, the very few, the celebrities. Then you were microchipped and sent to live out your life in the segregated area of your Career. That was where you spent the rest of your life.

 

For instance, my mother and father were both placed in Labour. Labour worked the land and made up forty percent of the US population. This meant that they were destined for poverty and minimum wage and nothing would ever change that. I knew that it is likely that I would get Labour too. Eighty percent of the time, your Placement results mirrored your parents, simply because you were generally best suited to the environment you grew up in.

 

I had long been accustomed to the unfairness of the Placement system. A test you take when you were eighteen years old defined the rest of your life and is virtually decided based on the status you are born into. I knew I was not the only one who felt this way. Many protest groups had appeared over the years, begging for a change, but inevitably, they always disappeared after a while. I was not stupid enough to protest and risk disappearing like all the others. No, instead I submitted myself to living as normally as I could.

 

My morning routine was simple. Wake up. Wash my face over the tiny sink in our bathroom. Eat a plain breakfast of rice bread and butter. Stuff my school workbooks into a torn blue backpack and run to catch the bus to school. I was not a bad student, but I was not necessarily a good one either. I studied like anyone else but my grades were never better than a C. I didn’t know why. It is just another reinforcement of my destiny to be in Labour. Maybe a miner like my father, or a cleaner like my mother.

 

However, when I got to school, instead of our regular teacher, a woman in a white dress appeared in front of my class. She had everyone’s attention immediately. We knew what a Government worker in a Labour school meant. It was our Placement. To stop people taking medications or doing things to try to skew results, the Government sector kept the date of the Placement test a secret. She calls out four names and those students followed her out. Three more groups of four had also left by the time she called my name. She led us into the hall where it was clear it had been set up for testing. Four tables were set up with more Government officials sitting at each.

 

A tall woman with straight brown hair beckoned to me from the furthest table. I walked towards her and took a seat. My legs were shaking and I didn’t know why because the truth is I wasn’t that nervous. Her nametag told me that her name is Sharon. She smiled warmly at me and I tried to relax.

“Can I have your full name and age please,”

“Brendon Boyd Urie and I am eighteen years old,” I said weakly.

She flips through a book until she came across my name, which she ticked off with a yellow highlighter.

“Afraid of needles Mr. Urie?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Then let’s begin the testing,” she said with a smile, before jabbing a 2-inch needle into my arm.

 

The next hour was a blur. I didn’t know what was going on. People in masks rushed around with medical equipment. I had no control of my arms or legs and my mind was clouded with a thick fog that I just couldn’t penetrate. Slowly, my world fades into darkness. I was blind. Then I realised I could move again. I stumbled forward with my hands outstretched. Endless nothing anywhere. A low buzzing sound reached my ears. It was rhythmic, syncopated and safe. I turned around listening closely for the source of the sound. I followed it until I found my hands on a doorknob. As I prepared myself to enter, I became aware of other sounds behind me. Chatter of people talking, a rustling similar to walking through autumn leaves, the sound of a keyboard clattering and a low piano tune. I stepped back from the door. Still drenched in darkness, I walked towards the other sounds. A low fear was settling over me. Where is everything? Why couldn’t I see? Suddenly all I wanted to do was run back to the door. But I was never one to do the safe thing. I followed the piano. The sad, melancholy melody of before has lifted into a beautiful, light-hearted piece. I feel my hands on another doorknob. I turn it and step forwards…

 

Then I woke up. I was lying down in some sort of CAT scan machine. Sharon, the woman from earlier, helped me to my feet. Slightly dizzy, I followed her out of the room. I looked around and saw I was not at school anymore. Corridor after corridor, I follow Sharon until she pushes on a large set of double doors leading to the outside. The sunlight briefly hurt my eyes after the artificial light of the building.

“So, Mr. Urie, I have your results,” she said, smiling.

Nervously, I smiled back. My heart was hammering fast. She handed me a light blue manila folder. I opened the cover to see my full ID. This document held the very details of my life. Name, date of birth, parents; all the regular info. Then I saw ‘Career.’ The small yet beautiful word sits just below it.

_Arts_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys looking for someone to beta, comment if you're interested
> 
> also i'll try and update as frequently as possible i promise


	2. Chapter 2

****

The long ride to the Arts sector was lonely and uncomfortable. I sat alone in the back of a truck with various cardboard boxes to keep me company. Sharon had explained before I left how I was the only Labour student to get Arts this year. So basically, I was destined to be alone. After what seemed like an eternity of driving, I hears the back doors open. Tentatively, I climbed out and looked around. I was standing outside a giant hall. The sky above was blue, unlike the grey of the Labour sector’s polluted sky. Another four identical trucks were parked nearby, each with various other students standing around. Fifteen overall, including me. A blonde woman with a short pink dress appeared and beckoned us all in.

 

Inside the hall was yet another surprise. The walls seemed to radiate a yellowy-gold glow and an enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling. In the centre was a lectern with a microphone. As we gathered around it, Pink-dress began to speak.

“Welcome all,” she announced grandly, “to the Arts. Here we value creativity, beauty and success and you too shall learn to admire these things. Today we welcome seven of our own Arts-born children into the adult world, as well as three from Hospitality, two from Military, two from Government and one from Labour. However, your past lives matter no longer – you are all one of us now.”

At the mention of Labour, I felt fourteen pairs of eyes on me. I tried to ignore them and focus all my energy onto Pink-dress who was still speaking. Looking at the other students, I could tell which ones were the Arts-born. Pink-dress gestured vaguely to the building around them.

“Here is where you shall spend all your time. The floor above us is where you shall sleep. The one above that is where you can find any resources you may need, and the one above that is for the Judges. This is how we do things around here. You need to produce a Work to be allowed to leave. Present it to the Judges and if they like it then they will let you go to make your fortune. Simple?”

 

It sounded simple enough. Unless you counted the fact that to my knowledge, I had no artistic talent whatsoever. We were given a quick dinner rice and potato then we were instructed to go to the second floor and find the room with our name on the door. I trailed behind the other students and prepared myself for everything except the one thing that actually happened. When we reached the top of the staircase hundreds of other men and women in identical light-blue shirts and black trousers, who were clapping and cheering, greeted us at our arrival. Startled, I looked around at the other students. The Arts-borns seemed unfazed but the other arrivals looked as confused as I did. A handful of these people were calling out names and signalling to us. Overwhelmed by the sheer number of people, I began to turn around and try to go back but more people had formed a wall there. Over the whistles and cheers, I heard someone call out my name.

 

“Brendon? Brendon?”

A young man with light brown hair was pushing his way to the front of the crowd. I tried to wave and get his attention. He seemed nervous and fidgety. People were now leaving, content with having had a good look at all the newcomers. I stepped up to the man calling my name.

“Hi, uh, I am Brendon,” I said awkwardly.

He stared at me for about a minute before smiling broadly.

“My name’s Ian,” he said happily, “and you’re in our room.”

I followed Ian through what seemed like a maze of rooms. Finally, we came to a door. It had four names scribed on a metal plate in front of it. My name was at the end and it shone clearly in gold. Three other more faded names were also there. Ian knocked on the door and it opened.

 

The room was tiny. Smaller than tiny. Cramped. Two bunk beds were pushed up against a wall and a small kitchenette stood in a corner. There was an old wardrobe and next to that a doorway leading to an even smaller bathroom. The walls were a dark brown and the floor was a murky grey carpet. I turned to look at the three men who I would be sharing this room with.

 

Ian was the shortest. His hair was messy and he looked no older than 16. He was energetic yet nervous and was bouncing on the heels of his feet. He was smiling kindly towards me. Then there was another man with brown hair and a small beard. He had a round face and a stocky build. He looked laid back and fair and was regarding me with an air of interest. The last man was watching me from the kitchen. He was very tall and skinny. He had soft, dark hair and prominent cheekbones. He looked tired yet clever. He got up from where he was and walked over.

 

“Hey there,” he said, with a soft Utah accent, “welcome.”

“Hi, uh, thanks,” I mumbled awkwardly, “I’m, um, Brendon,”

“Yeah, we know,” said the man with the beard, “but I’m Spencer and this is Dallon. I assume you’ve already met Ian.”

Spencer, Ian, Dallon. All unusual names by any measure. I nodded and let Spencer show me my bed, my section of the wardrobe and how to use all the parts of the kitchen. Together it seemed, they had it all ready for me. The bed was already made up. I was on the bottom bunk, under Spencer. Dallon was on the other top and Ian on the other bottom. They had folded a light blue shirt and pair of black pants on my bed for me to wear and had folded the other six pairs for the week in the wardrobe for me. Spencer had explained how even though we are given seven weekly outfits, we only ever wear six and save the seventh one for performing for the Judges. I had so many questions but I was too exhausted to ask. It was only when I went to bed that night that I could finally try to wrap my head around what was going on.

 

All my life I had perceived the Arts lifestyle as the easiest. Now I knew I had only ever seen the success stories. To be a success you needed to pass through this test and it seems not many people do. Spencer explained their situation. Of the three of them, he had been there the longest – five years. Dallon had been here for three and Ian for only one. Each day they went up to the third floor to try to make a masterpiece worthy of pleasing the Judges. None of them had ever been successful. Spencer had explained my options to me; visual arts, music, dance or drama. I could go up tomorrow and try them all out.

 

It was hard to think about. Just this morning I had prepared myself for a regular school day. Yet here I was, officially an adult, dependent entirely on my own skills to get me through life.

“Hey Spencer,” I asked quietly.

“Mm,” he murmured sleepily.

“Will I ever see my parents again?”

“No,”

With that thought, I fell asleep. This was my new life now. Too tired and overwhelmed to be sad, I closed my eyes and drifted off.

 


	3. Chapter 3

I was awoken roughly. Ian was shaking me fiercely.

“You could sleep through a hurricane,” he said disbelievingly, “Come on, get up. It’s time to go.”

I jumped out of bed and put my uniform on. Spencer and Dallon had already left. Ian handed me a glass of orange juice, which I sculled and then followed him out the door. Up the stairs to what Pink-dress had referred to as ‘resources.’ I opened the door and my mouth fell open in shock. My senses immediately overloaded. The cacophony of noise, the smell of paint and the sea of light blue shirts.

 

I followed Ian to where Spencer and Dallon were waiting. Spencer sat behind a drum kit and Dallon leant against a wall holding three guitars. He passed one to Ian and one to me.

“Oh, I don’t play guitar,” I said apologetically.

“I know,” said Dallon, “but you’re not an artist, a dancer or an actor so you might as well become a musician. We will teach you.”

 

Ian taught me how to play acoustic guitar the entire day. I hated it. I was awful. I got it wrong consistently. I’m not sure how or why but I had this idea that I would just pick up any instrument and be the next Paul McCartney. Man, was I wrong. I noticed some of the other newcomers every now and again but I never spoke to them. Ian was patient with me and showed me where I had made mistakes. He was far from a good teacher but I knew that without his help, I had nothing to get me through the Judges.

 

At around 6pm that night, Ian decided that I had done enough learning for one day. He explained to me his story. He was an Arts-born. He grew up knowing how to play guitar and he was really good at it. When he was placed in Arts, he expected to please the judges right away with his talent. But being good at guitar wasn’t enough for them. He needed his own music. His own sound. He tried and tried to write music but the truth was that he just wasn’t good at it. He still came up here every day and played guitar, but he lived in very little hope that he would ever make it big.

 

Ian had only been here a year and already he had resigned himself to failure. I had to admit that that was a huge blow to my own confidence as well. Ian got up and took the guitars back to the stands. I followed him there and back and on the way back, Ian pointed something out.

“Hey Brendon, do you see that man over there?” he asked pointing a finger at an old man staring out the window.

I nodded.

“He is what I’m going to become. He has been here over fifty years and never passed the Judges’ approval.”

I shivered involuntarily. Was that who I would become? Was I destined to live in this building for the rest of my life?

 

I followed Ian back to Dallon and Spencer. Spencer was hunched over piles of sheet music, making various changes to his music. Dallon stood facing the wall. He was playing a bass guitar and singing quietly to himself. It was almost haunting. I was about to tap him on the shoulder when Ian shook his head quickly at me. I looked at him questioningly so he took me out of earshot and explained.

“Dallon doesn’t like people listening to his music,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Then how does he perform?” I asked confusedly.

“It’s a mystery to me too,” laughed Ian, “it’s like he becomes a different person when he’s on stage.”

“But he’s so good. I was just going to say I liked it.”

“Yeah, he is, but don’t,” warned Ian with finality.

I heeded his advice and we walked back over to Dallon and Spencer. Now they were both packing up. Together we all put the instruments back and walked down to our room.

 

When we got to our room, Spencer walked over to his section of the wardrobe and pulled out a ton of papers. He thrust them into my arms.

“Empty manuscripts,” he explained, “for when you write songs.”

“Thank you,” I said, putting them at the foot of my bed.

“Hold onto them, hide them, keep them safe,” he advised, “People get desperate Brendon. When you’ve been in here a long time, you start thinking you’ll never get out. Stolen music is a real threat and you need to be careful.”

I nodded numbly and moved them to underneath my bunk. The smell of food caught my attention. I walked over to where Ian was making dinner at the kitchenette. It smelt incredible. He was making some kind of soup. I peered into the saucepan and I could see at least three different kinds of vegetables and a meat that looked to me like beef. My mouth watered in anticipation.

 

When it was ready, we all sat down on the carpet to eat it. The taste was incredible. The meat was rich and flavoursome and the vegetables were juicy and sweet. I was torn between wanting to consume it all and wanting to savour the flavours. When I was finished, I looked up from my bowl where Spencer and Ian were both watching me in amusement.

“Hungry?” asked Spencer jokingly.

“I’ve never had food this good before,” I explained excitedly, “back in Labour we never had food like this. It was always plain. Breads, potatoes, rice, pasta. This is so many flavours at once. It’s incredible.”

Spencer and Ian laughed. Dallon just stared down at his bowl of soup, untouched.

“Not hungry?” I asked

“Yeah, something like that,” said Dallon blandly, “If you want, you can have it,”

 

I considered taking it but something seemed off so I declined the offer. Dallon got up and poured the perfectly fine soup down the sink. He then collected everyone’s plates and began the washing up. Spencer pulled out a pack of cards and started dealing them as if for poker. He quickly taught me the rules and Dallon returned. Upon closer inspection, I found that the ‘cards’ were actually made from cut up manuscripts. After an incredibly depressing defeat, I undressed and went to bed, ready for the excitement that the next day would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey im taking suggestions for AU's and fanfic requests so either contact me here or on my tumblr @panic-soup


	4. Chapter 4

This time, I woke up by myself. Well, not really. Spencer stepped on me when climbing down from his bunk. At least I was awake when everyone else was. I pulled on my uniform and poured myself a glass of orange juice. Dallon was sitting alone on the kitchen bench, slowly chewing a piece of celery. Spencer and Ian both were enjoying blueberry muffins and explaining to each other their dreams last night. I joined them and they offered me a muffin too. I declined. How can they even think about food this early in the morning?

 

We walked up to the third floor all together today. Dallon grabbed a dark blue bass, Spencer began assembling the drum kit and Ian grabbed two acoustic guitars. He handed me one and we both went back to where we had played yesterday. After another couple of hours of me playing the guitar awfully, I asked Ian if there was anything else I could do that I didn’t suck at. To my surprise, he gave a small chuckle.

“You think you’re bad?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” I admitted.

“Brendon. Listen to me. What you have learnt and remembered in about a day and a half took me about a month to learn. You are a natural. I haven’t seen anything like it.”

Startled at the praise, I shook my head. I got the notes wrong. I was slow. The strings hurt my fingers. I didn’t understand. But Ian kept looking at me as if I was some sort of protégé. By five pm, I could play a couple of riffs and I knew how to read sheet music. For the next hour, I listened to Ian’s music.

 

I had never listened to Ian play properly and when he did for the first time, I was blown away. He was incredible. His fingers were nimble on the strings and he never missed a note. But I understood his problem. Every tune, every song was familiar. I recognised specific riffs from songs I knew. He could play other people’s songs; he just didn’t have one of his own.

 

I passed Dallon again, playing to an imaginary audience, facing the wall. Again, I was tempted to compliment him and tell him what I thought. But Ian’s advice stood out in my mind and I was not going to be so stupid as to directly disobey it. He was a mysterious character that I could not comprehend. He liked being alone, yet he was never lonely. He was clever, but he did not like to act that way. He was interesting and I wanted to know more.

 

“Why don’t you guys play as a band?” I asked Spencer that night as we made dinner.

“The Judges generally don’t let bands through. It’s just not what will sell right now.”

“Well maybe that’s what we should do,” I said.

Spencer looked at me quizzically.

“If no one else is in a band then that makes us unique right?”

Spencer shook his head.

“Sorry to let you down like this, but not a chance.”

I nodded. Spencer had been here the longest so I trusted his judgement.

 

I was tired, so tired. Instead of playing poker with the others that night, I went straight to bed. I lay there, staring at the underneath of Spencer’s bunk. It was stashed with manuscripts. I made a mental note to ask him if he had ever made anything he thought was good enough for the Judges. Had he even ever seen them? I pulled out the sheets that I had worked on today. Grabbing a nearly blunt pencil off the floor, I looked over them and started writing my own. Using the various notes I knew, I made a pattern. I could hear the notes playing in my head, as if I had a guitar right here in front of me. I tried so many different combinations until I found one I liked. Tomorrow I would ask Ian to play it for me.

 

I wasn’t even aware that I had fallen asleep until I woke up the next morning, hidden under the pile of sheet music that I had got out the night before.


	5. Chapter 5

Ian stared at my sheet music. It was not very neat. My treble clefs leant to the left and my semi quavers had wobbly tails.  He scribbled out wrong chords and replaced them with ones that sounded better.

 

He took out his guitar and played the melodies. He was instantly impressed. I looked on as his fingers skimmed over the strings. He played delicately, yet with force. He pulled my notes off the page and pushed them out into a tune. It was almost surreal, hearing what I had made come to life. Yet it would have been childish to imagine it could be the basis for a song. The notes were only basic. I did not have enough experience in music to make them into more. That was what I was hoping Ian could do.

 

He gathered the manuscripts into his arms.

“Hey can I take these?” he said, “I’ve got ideas for some improvements.”

“Sure,” I agreed eagerly.

If Ian could work with these, then I had already achieved my goal. It occurred to me that I had actually given him the potential to make music, to work on something unique, to be original. That was what he missed wasn’t it? Because the minute I handed them over, they weren’t mine anymore. When he changed them, he turned them into his sound. It then became clear; I never wanted them to be my songs anyway. They were an amalgamation of what Ian had taught me. I had written them as a thank you for my tuition. However, I didn’t know my own sound yet.

 

I walked over to the instruments and pulled out the guitar I used yesterday. I had decided that today would be the first day I work alone. My music. My sounds. My soul on a page. Turns out, we don’t always get what we want.

 

I was sitting down, strumming my guitar absent minded, trying to come across something that I liked. I could feel a pair of eyes on me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I shivered involuntarily. I looked around; trying to spot what was making me feel uncomfortable. Another boy with long brown hair was staring at me from a corner. Our eyes met but he did not look away. He just stared at me, unblinking. I raised my eyebrows as if to say ‘what do you want?’ but he seemed to take it as an invitation to talk to me, walking over slowly.

 

He was about a metre away from me when he stopped. He looked me up and down, as if performing some sort of inspection. Dark brown eyes bored into me. I felt like an artefact in a museum. I had had enough.

“Can I help you?” I asked, trying hard to sound irritated.

“Can you play guitar?” he asked boredly.

“Not very well,” I answered truthfully.

“Ok,” he said, before turning around to leave.

“Is that all?” I asked, now definitely irritated.

"Yep,” he said, clearly not wanting to say anything more.

 

He was walking away now. I pushed him out of my mind. Honestly, what a jerk. Didn’t even give me his name. I went back to my guitar but truthfully, I didn’t have a lot of motivation to keep going. Half-heartedly, I tried different note combinations but now they all sounded wrong. I resorted back to playing songs I knew, but this time the chords were angry, harsh and desperate. I was so immersed in the sounds; the hand on my shoulder startled me.

 

It was Dallon. He stared at me with a mixture of concern and anger. I could feel myself shrinking back. What had I done wrong?

“What did he want?” he asked tensely.

“What?”

“Ryan. What did he want?” Dallon asked again.

I figured Ryan was the rude brown-haired boy.

“He asked if I could play guitar,” I answered, “I said no.”

“Is that all?” pressed Dallon.

I nodded slowly. Confusion swirled through me. What was going on? Dallon’s shoulders relaxed and he broke into an uneasy smile.

“Why? What’s wrong about him?” I asked.

“He’s just not the type of person you really want to be friends with ok?

I nodded again. Clearly, I wasn’t the only person who thought that Ryan was a bit rude. I smiled at Dallon in a way I hoped was reassuring. Uncertainly, he turned around and went back to his guitar.

 

What was Dallon’s sound? His speaking voice was soft but he sang like a star in a Broadway musical. He lost himself in the subtle bass guitar. Instead of using instruments as his melody, he used his voice and counted on the guitar for the harmony. It was unique, yet it was so clearly Dallon. I envied that. He may not be talkative, but at least he knew what music he wanted to make.

 

That night, I dreamed of my parents. My mother, her soft face, her gentle features. She was singing while doing the housework. My father, stern, wise, the firm foundation on which my family grew. Together, they nurtured me and tried so hard to give me everything that I wanted, even when we really couldn’t afford it. And I left them. I left the two people who loved me unconditionally for a chance of fame. For a taste of what it would be like to be rich and important. I traded them for this tiny room in a large hall with three other guys I knew nothing about. Why was I so stupid?

 

I opened my eyes. My small battered wristwatch told me it was 2am. It belonged to my father. Another reminder of what I left behind. I sat up in bed. The last thing I expected was to see another pair of eyes watching me in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry im taking a long time to add chapters, i don't have much motivation at the moment
> 
> feel free to tell me what you think of it so far xx


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is a bit of a short chapter, my next one will be longer

Two shiny eyes regarded me from the corner of the room. When I was fully adjusted to the darkness, I saw those eyes belonging to the tall boy with the soft hair.

“Dallon, what the hell are you doing sitting here in the dark?” I whispered.

He shrugged his shoulders. I got up and walked over to the tap to pour myself a glass of water.

“What were you dreaming about?” asked Dallon softly.

“Nothing,” I said quietly, not wanting to admit I missed my family.

“Okay,” said Dallon, but I knew he didn’t believe me.

I walked back to my bunk. I knew Dallon was still watching me.

“Brendon,” he whispered.

 

I turned back around. He bit his lip, as if wondering whether he should say something. He must have decided that he would say something because the next sentence took me by surprise.

“Why are you sorry?” he asked.

The minute that the words had escaped from his mouth, it was clear that he wished they hadn’t. Now it was my turn to ask a question.

“What do you mean?” I said slowly.

Reluctantly he answered, “You were talking in your sleep. You kept saying you were sorry.”

I was taken aback. I did not mean to say anything in my sleep. Then again, who does? Dallon stared at me in the dark. I wanted to lie. I did not want to tell him the truth. Yet, I felt that I needed to. I needed someone to understand. I needed Dallon to understand.

“I’m sorry that I left my family behind. I’m sorry that I left everyone who loved me. I know how weak it sounds but there you go.”

“That’s not weak at all,” he said, “it’s caring. You should be proud that you remember them. You should be glad that you know that you owe them your character. You should value the fact that your parents loved you.”

It was more than I had ever heard him speak before. But it was exactly what I needed to hear. His words in the dark reassured me. However, we both knew that it meant more than that. It was the first extension of friendship. I took it gladly.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He simply nodded in the dark. I climbed back into my bed. Comforted by Dallon’s speech, I closed my eyes and afforded myself some sleep.

 

I woke up refreshed the next morning. I ate a slice of toast with Ian and Spencer. Dallon maintained his seat on the kitchenette bench, enjoying celery again. The atmosphere was warm and bright. Ian was humming the tune of ‘Under Pressure’ under his breath. Spencer picked up the tune and tapped out the drumbeat on the bench with his cutlery. I looked at Dallon briefly and in that one second we both decided, we could do it. I took Freddie Mercury while he took David Bowie. The four of us danced around the room, Spencer playing the beat on any hard surface he could find. I could not help myself from breaking out into a huge smile. Dallon and I harmonised on every lyric. When the song was over, we all took a big sigh and collapsed onto each other, out of breath. After a while, we all got up, still laughing. Riding some sort of musical high, we all were smiling as we walked up to the third floor.


	7. Chapter 7

I grabbed my guitar. I was definitely growing fond of it. Determined to make the most of my time here, I began to write out music. I would write a riff then play it. The last thing I expected was to see Ryan standing in front of me again.

 

“I thought you said you weren’t good at guitar,” he said emotionlessly.

“I’m still learning, yeah,” I said dryly, wary of my chat with Dallon yesterday.

“Well you’re good enough,” he said, ‘follow me.”

If this guy thought I was just going to go with him he was definitely wrong. I shook my head defiantly. He stared at me unblinkingly. I must have made it clear enough that I wasn’t going with him because he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me over to the other side of the room. Helplessly, I went along. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dallon watching me. His eyes were narrowed dangerously. Ryan finally let go of me and I rubbed my arm. His grip had left a red mark.

Face still void of emotion, he explained, “Our guitarist just broke his arm. You’re his replacement. All our songs are already written. It’s a shortcut to the Judges. Are you in?”

I laughed. Was this guy serious? After the rude encounter yesterday, did he really expect I’d just join his band? He still hadn’t actually told me his name. I turned around and walked back.

“Are you stupid?” he called out after me, “We’re going to the Judges. Anyone would give an arm and a leg to be invited into our band.”

“You should invite someone else then,” I called back.

“Nice try, but I can’t. Not that many people are our type you know,”

“What type?” I retorted back, “Asshole?”

“No you idiot,” he said, anger beginning to show on his normally unreadable face.

The next word was a slap in the face.

“Gay.”

 

I gave him the finger as I turned around angrily and walked back to my guitar. What a jerk. What an asshole. What a dickhead. Calling me gay. As if! As I got back to my place, I could not find my manuscripts. Someone had taken them while I was gone. Like my day couldn’t get any worse. I kicked the chair, hoping that would somehow relieve my anger. Now with a sore foot, I just wanted to scream. In a huff, I picked up the guitar and put it away. I stormed back to my room, needing to get away from everyone for a while.

 

I slammed the door and the whole room seemed to shake. My heartbeat now pounded in my ears. I punched the wall forcefully and half expected to see it break under my fist. I had been insulted, my hard work had been stolen and everything hurt. I swore under my breath. Someone knocked on the door. Reluctantly, I opened it. Spencer and Dallon stood there. I glared at them both.

 

“Why aren’t you still out there playing music?” I demanded.

All three of us knew what I was really saying was ‘go away.’

“Mate, you’ve got a face like thunder,” explained Spencer, “we came to see what was up.”

“Well I was fine here on my own thanks,” I snapped back.

Spencer threw his hands up in surrender and stepped back. Then, Dallon stepped forward.

“Watch it Brendon,” he said quietly, “We just came to help. I think these are yours.”

He then handed over a stack of pages. I gathered them into my arms.

“My manuscripts,” I realised aloud.

“You left them behind when you went off with Ryan. I collected them so they wouldn’t get stolen.”

“Thank you,” I said meekly, thoroughly embarrassed.

Spencer looked up sharply, “Brendon’s with Ryan?”

I shook my head, about to explain, when Dallon spoke over the top of me.

“No, and you don’t need to worry Spence, I already warned him,”

 

Spencer visibly relaxed and stepped into the room. Dallon still hung at the door.

“Why did he want to talk to you today?” he asked.

“Wanted me to join his band,” I said, determined to give away as few details as possible.

“You said no right?” he asked with urgency.

“Of course,”

Satisfied with my answer, Dallon also stepped inside.

 

Ian returned from upstairs later that night. He was a bit hurt that everyone had come down and no one had told him, but he soon forgot all about it. That was when Dallon made his announcement. Anyone else might have made a big speech, tried to make the room silent, but not Dallon.

Casually he said, “I’m going to play for the Judges tomorrow.”

 

It had about the effect of a bomb being dropped in our little room. I joined in with Ian and Spencer who were cheering. Spencer rushed to the tiny fridge and pulled out a bottle of champagne. We opened it and shared it between ourselves. Dallon profusely refused at the start (‘I can’t be hungover for my performance!’) but eventually agreed to just one glass. He pulled out his pristine uniform from the cupboard, prepared to wear it tomorrow. He probably received about a thousand good-luck punches from the three of us combined. Naturally, we wished him the best of luck. My bad mood from earlier had vanished with the excitement that maybe he was about to make it big. None of us even wanted to think about what it would mean if he didn’t get through. All of us went to bed late that night, dreading the morning where we might have to say goodbye to our friend forever.

 

Unluckily, that morning came even sooner for me, when I was woken by another nightmare. I had been standing on a stage, singing for a huge audience when I spotted my parents in the crowd. I walked over, expecting them to be happy for me but they were both frowning.

“You left us” cried my mother.

“You’re a dishonour on this family,” accused my father.

“You’re worthless to us,” they both screamed at me.

Shocked, I stepped back, but all my previously cheering fans looked at me with disgust. How could I do that to my family? I was a sham, a fake, not worthy of their adoration. They turned on me, hitting me, beating me until I drowned under the mass of people.

 

I still struggled to breathe once I was awake. My shirt stuck to my sweaty skin, fabric restricting my every movement. I gulped, forcing air into my lungs. My chest burnt with tiredness and residual fear. I got up, bleary-eyed and walked straight into a soft object. The force knocked me backwards.

“Ouch,” said whatever I had walked into.

“Sorry,” I apologised, still not sure what was going on from my new position on the floor.

I felt another hand in mine and allowed it to pull me to my feet. Upon reorientating myself, I found that I was once again spending my very early morning with Dallon.

“What are you doing now?” I whispered, slightly concerned that he was awake for the second time in a row at 2am.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he whispered back.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’d be nervous too.”

I sat back down on my bed and gestured for him to join me.

 

“Can I be honest with you?” he asked me quietly.

“Go for it,” I said calmly.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do if the Judges don’t like my music.”

He was making a huge effort to sound nonchalant, but he couldn’t hide the slight shaking in his voice.

“Of course they will Dallon,” I said, “I’ve heard you play. Ian said you don’t like it when people listen to you but you would have to be crazy if you thought that means that I would ignore the most incredible talent I have ever seen.”

Dallon stared into my eyes, searching for a sign that I might be lying. But if that’s what he was looking for, then he was not in luck. Now it was his turn to accept my extension of friendship.

“Thanks,”

Since there was no chance of either of us getting any sleep, we went out, sat in the hall, and played cards by the low lamplight until the morning.


	8. Chapter 8

Breakfast was a short affair. We were all too nervous on behalf of Dallon to be hungry. We walked past the third floor and up a second flight of steps. It was my first time there but clearly not for the others. At the entrance, we bid our farewells. If Dallon made it through, it was likely that we would never see him again.

 

Dallon was smiling but his voice still held the nervous quiver from last night. Spencer pulled him into a tight hug before letting him go. Ian gave him a quick, awkward handshake before giving a twitchy, heartfelt smile. I went in to hug Dallon as well. He whispered an almost inaudible ‘goodbye’ in my ear. He smelt faintly of sandalwood. Then came the gifts. Spencer pulled out a guitar pick. He had fashioned it himself from a red piece of plastic. The initials D.W. were painted onto it and I assumed it was Dallon’s initials. What did the W stand for? I stood there silently, wishing I had found out before now. Then Ian pulled out a streamer of material. It was striped silver and black. He tied it around Dallon’s head like a bandana. Now it was my turn to give a gift. No one had told me to bring one. Was I really going to be the one asshole who didn’t have a present? I tugged the silver ring off my finger. It was my mother’s and the last connection to home I had. It was a plain silver band with the letters ‘G. Urie’ inscribed on the inside. Grace Urie. Even without the ring, I would never forget her. I placed it in Dallon’s palm. I wanted to tell him to look after it, but somehow I knew that he would. It fit perfectly around his fourth finger. He gave me a small smile.

 

He waved the three of us goodbye as we rounded the corner to take our seats in the audience. Spencer explained to me how it was customary to watch a roommate’s performance and if I was completely honest, I wanted to know what I was going to be performing in front of. We entered a cavernous auditorium. I took my seat and trained my eyes on the stage in front.

 

This was my first look at the Judges. There were four, all wearing matching, immaculate, white suits. They regarded the contestants with a perfectly emotionless face that gave nothing away. The way everyone regarded them, it was clear they were the height of popularity. Spencer explained to me how unlike typical talent competitions, the Judges hardly interact with the contestant. They just pressed a green light if they liked it and a red if they did not. To get through, Dallon needed three of the four judges to approve his song.

 

I grabbed a nearby itinerary for today. There were three acts before Dallon’s, all musical. I counted each one down.  A solemn saxophonist was first. The tune was slow and melancholy, yet it carried little-to-no emotion. In all honesty, I was not surprised when he was not approved. The next group were much better. It was four girls on keyboard, drums, lead guitar and vocals. The tune was light and pop-y. Musically, it was well composed and the girls did not miss a beat. Their faces showed no nervousness but they must have been terrified. When the song finished they all looked up expectantly, grinning happily. The four Judges conversed briefly for a minute but when the results came in, only one Judge approved it. The transition on their faces nearly broke my heart. Crestfallen, they dragged themselves offstage. The act after them was a sandy-haired boy playing an acoustic guitar. I recognised him as one of the Arts-born at my Placement. ‘Kenny’ was his name and he smiled at the Judges with an almost-pout. He had a rough voice and strong American accent coming through in his lyrics. The music was alternative but almost tropical. This was talent if I had ever seen it. When he finished his song and stared up at the Judges with a sweaty face and boyish eyes, he was happy to see four out of four approvals.

 

Next to me, Spencer looked impressed. The bright lights of the stage reflected in his eyes and he stared at the space where Kenny had been, as if trying to see whatever it was that the Judges saw in the man. He was shaken out of his reverie when Dallon appeared before us. He had painted around his eyes in black eyeliner and underneath, like black tears. He suddenly looked so much taller and so much skinnier. His blue shirt hung off him casually. He stepped up to the microphone and sang.

 

It was the song I had heard him sing to the wall. His imaginary audience wasn’t imaginary today. I had heard it a million times but at the same time, I was hearing it properly for the first time. He sang with raw emotion, feeling every word pour out of his soul. It was mind-blowingly beautiful. His fingers skimmed nimbly over the strings of his bass guitar. He swayed gently in time with the song. When he was done, he bowed his head, soft hair flopping over his eyes. When he dared to look up again, he was greeted with the pleasant green glow of all four Judges’ approval. Finally allowing himself to breathe again, he sighed a soft ‘thanks’ into the microphone before walking off. Like everyone else in the auditorium, I was clapping furiously. I wanted to call out to him. Wish him luck. Tell him he was great. Now he was gone. From the minute the Judges gave him the ‘ok’ he became truly elite. From now on he would live in luxury, only having to put in effort once a year to pop out a new album before continuing a sedentary lifestyle. I was most likely never going to see him again. That thought haunted me for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey im going away for a while so it's going to be ages between now and the next chapter. im sorry for the wait but i'll try to keep going as soon as i get back.


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